


For Want of a Comb

by feverly



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:07:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverly/pseuds/feverly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikasa brushes Sasha's hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Want of a Comb

It happened without warning when Sasha dropped her comb. It hadn’t even stopped clattering on the floor before Mikasa was at her side, sweeping it silently off the floor and placing it back into Sasha’s fingers as if she had rewound time so that it had never fallen to begin with. Sasha froze at Mikasa’s unexpected presence. She could have sworn Mikasa had been across the room, at her own bedside. And even if Mikasa had been next to her, she never would have thought the other girl would make a gesture like this.

Mikasa was so self-sufficient it seemed only natural she expect the same out of everyone else around her.

Sasha gulped and sputtered a tangled “Thank you.” She wrapped her fingers tighter around the comb.

Mikasa nodded perfunctorily, swayed her body to leave, and then paused, a single strand of dark hair slipping from one side of her nose to another. She blinked down at the comb, still suspended in Sasha’s hand.

“Ah.” Sasha brought it in front of her face. The comb now sported several loose teeth, barely attached by some dry fibrous strands. She frowned, picking the teeth out as it was inevitable they would fall off on their own if she continued to try and use it. She sighed.

“Sorry.”

“What? Oh, no, please do not be. I was the one who was careless.” Sasha replied very quickly, not quite looking Mikasa in the eye as she smiled up at her.

But now the comb was just about useless. A good chunk of it was gone from the middle, reducing the usable surface to only a few inches on the top and bottom. Sasha felt Mikasa’s gaze fall on the comb and - as if it were a simmering coal - burn the skin of her fingers. Mikasa was as unsparing with words as ever and her prolonged presence was becoming unnerving. Sasha was just about to work up the courage to ask if anything was wrong when Mikasa asked quietly, “Is that made of bone?”

She blinked. “Ah. Actually, my father carved it for me out of the antlers of a stag I brought down. It was my 10th birthday gift.”

Something flickered in Mikasa’s eyes - like sparks behind a grate of coal. Abruptly, she crossed the room toward her trunk and retrieved her own comb, made of wood stained darker than tea. Returning to stand behind Sasha’s chair, she gestured at her hair, “Let me then.”

“Eh?! But, but - ” Sasha’s voice sounded shrill but Mikasa cut her off.

“I could hear the knots breaking.”

Ymir suddenly snorted, and Sasha was acutely reminded of the fact that there were, of course, more people in the room than just the two of them. She crumpled her shoulders in embarrassment. “It is not normally this tangled. The weather’s been drier and I -”

Mikasa didn’t even wait for her to finish before placing her comb firmly at the top of Sasha’s head and bringing it straight down, nearly reaching the bottom before it ran into a knot and sent a jolt of sizzling pain into Sasha’ scalp. She yelped, nearly leaping out of her skin.

“Sit still.”

She pouted, but didn’t really have much of a choice other than to go along with it. Mikasa had picked up the knot and started undoing it by hand, so Sasha fiddled with her broken comb in her lap, feeling along the tips of the teeth and turning it over and over. She wondered about her father while Mikasa hunted down each and every knot, methodically and thoroughly in a rhythm that eventually persuaded Sasha to drowse.

When Mikasa exchanged her comb for a brush, Sasha snapped back to reality. She’d thought once all the knots were gone that would be the end of this and Mikasa would leave to finally get dressed herself, taking away the firm touch of her hands and the warmth of her presence. Instead, Mikasa silently gathered up Sasha’s hair in a bouquet to brush it from underneath, the backs of her knuckles raking gently across Sasha’s skin. The hairs on Sasha’s neck stood straight up and she gulped involuntarily.

“Um, Mikasa?” 

“Your hair’s very fine. It needs brushing more.” Mikasa’s reply was strangely detached. 

“...I see.”

“Otherwise it’ll set on fire like dry grass.” 

Now that was much more like Mikasa. Sasha laughed nervously at the chastisement. “I-I will do my best.” 

They lapsed back into silence. It was strange that this wasn’t getting any more surreal. The brushing was different from the combing. It was slower and gentler, and Sasha no longer fiddled with her comb; instead she enjoyed each stroke and the tingling comfort it brought. Mikasa seemed to be indulging herself in an old ritual, swaying lightly side to side as she worked her way from the left to the right.

“I’ve never had anyone brush my hair.”

Sasha wasn’t even aware she had spoken until Mikasa stopped abruptly. The silent golden glow shattered.

Some of the girls who came from better off families brought their own tiny mirrors, but that included neither of them. If only there had been one sitting on top of the table in front of Sasha now, she might have been able to see the look on Mikasa’s face. As it was, all she could do was stare straight ahead at the wall, and it was a mixed blessing Mikasa did the same.

“I’ve...been lucky enough to have someone who helped me.” 

Ymir gave them a skewed glance as she passed by on her way out the door. 

Sasha started to look back - but stopped. Mikasa’s grip on her hair had slackened and if Sasha turned any more, her hair would fall away from the other girl’s fingers and that tenuous connection would be gone. 

So she waited, holding her breath and her body both perfectly still - in the same way she waited for prey to flush from cover, to give away its intentions before she loosed her arrow.

“...Nevermind.” Mikasa’s tone returned to its usual degree of aloofness, and her hands resumed the methodical pace they had employed at the very beginning.

Wordlessly, Sasha looked forward again. Mikasa finished the brushing only a few short minutes later.

“There.” 

Without looking back she left Sasha sitting in the chair, striding purposefully across the room to put her things away. Sasha’s hands flew to her hair, now brushed to smooth softness. She twisted around to see Mikasa dressing on the double to get out the door. Without really thinking, she scrambled to her feet and made it halfway across the room, but not quite to Mikasa’s side.

“Uh, Mikasa?”

“Yes?” The other girl queried, throwing her scarf on over her shoulder as she stepped over the threshold.

I -um! I want to - ….Thank you, Mikasa.” She finished lamely, feeling her face grow hot. 

“It’s alright.” 

For a moment, she wanted to offer to brush Mikasa’s hair next time. But, Mikasa just smiled at her, very briefly, before slipping out into the sunshine.

And even though she still hadn't lost her chance, she had lost her nerve. Because she was Sasha, the weird, spacey potato girl that no one really expected anything of. And because this was Mikasa, the girl she was beginning to feel more than admiration for and beginning to fear more than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate description: Mikasa and Sasha need to do more girly things together.


End file.
